


Boxed

by wattlebird



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode: s07e17 The Born-Again Identity, Possibly Pre-Slash, Season/Series 07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 17:05:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3297863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wattlebird/pseuds/wattlebird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There it sat, pushed as far into the back corner of the Impala's trunk as it could go. Dean avoided looking at it as much as he could.</p><p>Dean and the box that keeps calling to him. Set in season 7.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There it sat, pushed as far into the back corner of the Impala's trunk as it could go. Dean avoided looking at it as much as he could; however, every once in a while something would roll or fall back there, and he would be forced to look at it. His heart twisted painfully in his chest every time he looked at that unassuming cardboard box. There was nothing special about the box itself. It was just a plain, medium-sized, brown number which had started its life out as a shipping box. Indeed, the original shipping label was still there, stuck to the long rectangular flap. Dean had pulled it from a dumpster that was sitting in some random alley in some random town. He couldn't remember where anymore, the towns and roads ran together now in his head, all of the memories tinged with the heavy hand of loss. Dean had thrown himself headfirst both into helping Sam--as much as he could--with controlling his hallucinations and trying to track down the Leviathan that had been set free. A raging fury filled him as he thought of the Leviathan. _Why couldn't Cas have listened to me and put them back where they came from? Or better yet, not mess with Purgatory at all? Dammit!_

Dean slammed the trunk lid down. He stalked to the driver's side door, wrenched it open, and threw himself into the seat. His newly healed leg gave a painful twinge with these actions, but he ignored it in favor of starting up the Impala and cranking up the cassette player. Sam looked at him quizzically as Metallica blared through the speakers, but didn't try to engage his brother in any sort of interaction.

* * *

 

Many miles later found Dean in front of the trunk once more. It was dark out now, Sam sleeping fitfully in the crappy motel room in front of which the car was parked. He popped the trunk open. By the light of the streetlamp, he could see the box lurking in the corner to which it had been relegated. Looking at it, he didn't know why he was doing this to himself. With a grunt, he pulled the box out, shut the trunk, and headed inside their shared room. He glanced over at Sam as he passed him on his way to the bathroom. Sam was curled in on himself as if to make him as small as possible, an ambitious feat for the giant of a man. Dean sighed and shook his head. _  
_

He flipped on the bathroom light and closed the door behind him. Evaluating the room, he came to the conclusion that this was not one of the better motels that they had stayed in in all of their many years on the road. The ceiling looked like a Rorschach test with all of the years of water staining; the mirror and many of the tiles on the floor were cracked. There was definitely something alive in the tub hidden behind the musty shower curtain that was polka-dotted with mildew. He sat down on the urine-stained toilet and set the box down on his lap.

His hands trembled slightly as he reached for the tape that held the package closed. _Man up, Winchester, it's just a damn box. You've stopped the apocalypse, what's some cardboard?_  Scoffing, he ripped the tape off; the flaps lifted away from the rest of the container. He tossed the tape in the general direction of the small trash can and slowly opened the box. The first item that caught his eye was a water-swollen leather wallet; he grabbed it and flipped it open carefully. A familiar blue-eyed man stared up at him from the driver's license. Dean stared at the photograph for a long time. Eventually, he tore his eyes away from the picture to read the information that was printed next to it:

JAMES NOVAK            

425 WESTVIEW DRIVE   

PONTIAC, IL 61764      

Birthdate: 07-10-1973

MALE 5'11"        170lbs        BLUE eyes       

After taking in this information, he drifted back to the photo. He didn't really know Jimmy, Castiel's vessel (he had only really met him once), but with the way his face was set in the picture, it wasn't hard to imagine it was one of Castiel instead. The remaining contents of the wallet were nothing of interest to Dean at the moment: several credit cards issued to James Novak, a couple of loyalty cards (one to a grocery store in Illinois and the other to Gas-n-Sip), a fragile picture of Jimmy's family, and a few business cards that were now nearly illegible due to water damage. The wallet was closed with care and placed on the counter next to the toilet. Next, he grabbed the cell phone that was sitting on top of the only other article that remained in the package. He couldn't stand to pick that one up, not yet anyway. It was a pre-paid phone, silver and black with no visible damage. The phone slid open smoothly to reveal the keypad and the navigation buttons. Wondering if the thing would even turn on, he held the power button down. The screen flashed on for a brief moment and then went black. Dean shrugged. It was more than he was expecting from the thing since it had been exposed to the water for a period of time. He set the phone down next to the wallet on the counter and turned his attention back to the box and its contents.

It sat folded neatly in the rectangular container. A tan, well-worn trenchcoat (one that he had rescued from the banks of that reservoir a few short months ago) awaited his touch. Dean reached out slowly towards the garment, the trembling in his hands returning now with full force. It unfolded gently as he lifted it from the wrappings by the shoulders. He rose to his feet as he pulled the coat out, allowing the box to fall to the floor with a soft thump. The trench as an article of clothing was not much in and of itself. It was a standard tan trenchcoat to the uninitiated eye in all regards: made of fabric, had a lining, pockets both inside and out, a belt with loops to hold it in place around the waist. Dean knew better, however. One simply cannot see someone wearing the same outfit for years without cataloging every detail, consciously or not. Giving the item a once-over, he could almost record every stain and tear that the coat had seen and then had subsequently been repaired by Castiel. Now it was covered in blood, gore, and mud from the most recent of Castiel's "adventures". He could remember the body that once filled the now-limp fabric, slim yet muscular; Castiel, for the most part, had taken good care of his vessel.

Dean's mouth twitched unpleasantly as he thought these things. He turned and caught his own expression in the spotted mirror over the sink. In a flurry of motion, he threw the coat to the floor behind him and took a swing at the offending reflection. His fist connected with the glass and a webbed pattern emerged underneath it, joining the cracks that were there previously. A few shards were dislodged and clattered noisily to the counter and the tiled floor. Breathing heavily, he kicked the box as he passed it on his way to the tub. He grabbed a handful of the vile shower curtain and yanked it off of the rod where it hung. The curtain came away with a loud popping noise as the plastic rings that formerly held it in place either snapped or ripped through the plasticized fabric. Dean angrily wadded up the offending material and threw it across the grimy bathroom. It landed next to the trenchcoat with a flutter. Dean slowly crossed the room to where the coat lay in a heap. Picking the coat up, he impulsively pressed his face into the collar of the coat and inhaled deeply. There it was, the scent that still lingered beneath the stench of blood and the muddy earthy smell the water had left. It was a combination of musk and something like ozone.

That's what did it. That's what broke him. He clutched the jacket to his chest as tears ran down his face; Dean choked back a sob and sank to his knees. Emotions ripped through him as he knelt on that dirty olive green tile. Anger followed grief chased by betrayal which was then trailed by a deep sense of loss. To say he was conflicted would be putting it mildly. He was furious with Castiel for what he had done to Sam, not to mention the whole becoming God stunt that he had pulled and which had, in turn, gotten him killed. Dean couldn't quite dismiss the love and fondness that he felt for Castiel nonetheless. He was family and God knew there were precious few of those people left for the Winchesters.

Time passed quickly as Dean was lost in his thoughts and angst; his knees protested as he continued to kneel on the uncomfortable floor. At some point, he started to pray and beg the powers that be to bring Castiel back. He then prayed to Castiel himself. "Cas, you son of a bitch, how could you do this to us? Get your feathery ass back here, we need to talk. I need to talk to you. Please, Cas. Don't be dead. Don't be dead."

 


	2. Several Weeks Later

The scenery flew past the car's windows as Dean roared towards the supposed miracle healer's house. Pulling up to the house, which was situated in the middle of a nice suburb in Colorado, he checked the house number, 1859, before he stepped out of the car and walked up to the front porch. As he knocked on the red wooden door, Dean looked around at the porch and what he could see of the house through the door's large window. A man responded to Dean's knock and stood on the threshold.

"Hi. Uh, is this Daphne Allen's house? I'm looking for Emmanuel," Dean inquired of him.

"Well, you found him." The man smiled slightly and continued, "Daphne is resting, if you don't mind." He stepped out the door and closed it behind him.

"Oh, sure. Yeah, sure," Dean said, as he stepped back to the front half of the porch to allow the man some room. He cleared his throat. "So. I was hoping, uh…" he trailed off as he looked into the window on his right, where he could see a woman bound and gagged to a chair through the curtains. He quickly turned his attention back to the man, whose eyes flipped completely black. The man smiled predatorily, grabbed Dean, and threw him backwards into the doorway. His head hit the glass in the door with a smash.

"You were saying, Dean?" the demon mocked with his back to the stairs.

"You know? I'd think twice." Dean's eyes narrowed. "Or don't you know that your boss issued a hands-off memo?" He could hardly contain his rage at the creature that stood before him.

The demon scoffed. "Please. What have you done for him lately? Roman's head on a plate? No?" Dean looked around trying to come up with a plan while the demon continued. "Whatever Emmanuel is, Crowley is gonna want him. A lot more than he wants you these days. So…" 

The demon came at Dean, covering the short distance between them swiftly. It was immediately met with the business end of Ruby's knife. The demon roared with agony as his existence came to an end in flashes of orange light. Dean pulled the knife out the nearly lifeless body and shoved it down the wooden stairs; the corpse landed at the feet of another man who looked down at it.

Dean watched the demon fall down the steps and made sure that it wasn't going to get up again before he turned his attention to the other man. He looked, and then he looked again as the other man's face rose to meet his eye line. A set of blue eyes met Dean's green ones.

_Cas._

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! Thanks for reading! I would love to hear from you, questions, thoughts, concerns, what color the sky is today... 
> 
> Concrit totally welcome.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it. :) Have a lovely day!


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